


of iron and clay

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom!Eames, Foot Fetish, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's phone was next to him in the sheets; he picked it up, suddenly alarmed, hoping he hadn't sent any untoward texts last night -- oh shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of iron and clay

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/pseuds/anatsuno).

Arthur woke up alone, with a tremendous headache. The morning light, strong behind the thick hotel curtains, would seem to indicate the sun had been up for some time. His mouth was dry and he ached all over.

Sitting up, he groaned in effort, and noticed the dried come on his belly. His own, right? Yes. He dimly recalled falling asleep after jerking off, naked. He hadn't gotten drunk like this in quite some time, but he had just finished a particularly stressful job where Cobb was the only team member he even remotely considered a friend, and with a flight out late the next day, getting drunk had seemed like a good idea.

His phone was next to him in the sheets; he picked it up, suddenly alarmed, hoping he hadn't sent any untoward texts last night -- oh shit.

He looked in his message listing. The last one was from Eames. “enjoy,” it read. Oh God.

Before that there was a picture text. It was of Eames' bare feet. Arthur groaned aloud, starting to remember. His head pounded harder. But he scrolled up, looking at his last text to Eames.  
‘'I hope this isn't weird but I want a pic of yr feet”

"Shit. Shit," Arthur breathed, his headache getting yet worse. He'd always found Eames weirdly attractive, and they'd made out (as much as the phrase didn't seem to fit; it felt too much like college) drunkenly in the corner of some club once before being interrupted, but there was nothing at all that would give Arthur any non-drunk reason to believe that Eames would welcome a sext, let alone a request for a picture of his feet. And yet.

Horrifyingly enough, he did have a job coming up with Eames, to whom he must now appear to be some sort of closet pervert with a lack of boundaries. Arthur didn’t so much mind Eames thinking of him as a pervert -- he’d prefer it, actually, and Eames almost certainly had some special proclivities of his own that Arthur was more than a little curious about -- as he minded looking like a clueless pervert who didn’t know whom he should ask for pictures and when. Particularly in this arena. Arthur had dated several people who had not responded enthusiastically to his interest (which he felt was comparatively mild) in their feet. It wasn’t like he was asking for much -- he just found them aesthetically pleasing. 

If Eames didn’t scorn Arthur for his lack of boundaries, he’d probably be wildly curious and inquisitive and teasing about it all, not something Arthur was sure he wanted from a coworker who could be kind of prickly sometimes and had the memory of an elephant. He had gotten himself into a bit of a mess. Now what? He considered texting an apology -- probably the best course of action -- and then cringed at the memory of the “enjoy” text. He could feel his face turning red all over again. “Sorry,” he texted, finally, before slowly getting up and beginning the process of banishing his hangover -- water, coffee, aspirin, and a shower.

When he got back to the bed, where he’d left his phone, he saw that Eames had replied. “no need for apologies. i can only hope your needs were met.”

Arthur groaned. “Thanks,” he replied. That was vague enough.

“i am feeling a bit used tho.”

He was teasing, of course, had to be. Arthur swallowed, and quickly replied. “How can I make that up to you?” Immediately after pressing Send, he felt chagrined; sent that too fast, he thought.

“i have a request of my own if you don’t mind.”

“Go on.”

Eames made him wait a while before replying. “a photo of your hand on your cock. if i may be so bold as to ask.”

Arthur stared at his phone.

Another text: “you’ll pardon me but i feel if i facilitated your orgasm it’s only fair for you to facilitate mine.”

Hard to argue with that, Arthur reflected as he pulled down his pajama pants and laid back on the bed. He was getting hard, and helped himself along with some squeezing strokes. He took his time, figuring Eames could use -- and probably appreciate -- some retaliatory teasing.

This could potentially be a highly incriminating photograph, he thought to himself as he considered the best angle to use. And this would definitely complicate things on the next job he had with Eames. Complicated isn’t always bad, he decided. Choosing the best angle, he took the picture, hit Send, and waited, idly stroking himself. He wished he could witness Eames’ reaction to it.

Eames made him wait for a reply, as well.

“oh my”

He replied with “Didn’t think I’d send it?”

“no i thought you would. am just delighted to have other suspicions confirmed”

“Awfully talkative right now.”

“youre right. since youve your mobile handy i think i’ll call you”

Arthur waited, and took the call almost as soon as it rang. No point in being coy now, he was right here.

“I wanted to hear your voice,” Eames said, sounding a little breathless. “I have a bit of a thing about it.”

“You have a thing about my voice?” Arthur said, slowly, grinning.

“You’ve a thing about my feet. I think we’re even.”

“They’re nice feet.” Arthur settled back, shifting a bit to get comfortable again, and gave himself a squeeze. His inhalation was audible, as was the hitch in his breath, and Eames made a sound like a purr.

“If you’d waited until the Harris job, you could’ve seen them in person for this,” Eames scolded, teasing. “I’d’ve let you do literally anything you wanted to them.”

Arthur laughed, feeling a pulsing through his cock at the thought. “Have I lost my chance?”

“Not at all, it’s just… rather frustrating being on the phone the first time, don’t you think?”

“Better than nothing. I can’t complain. I like hearing your voice too.”

“Well, aren’t we full of praise for one another. Shocking.” Eames was evidently moving around, and there was a little sigh, static muffling the connection for a moment. “Ah. There we are.” 

Arthur rolled his fingertips over the head of his cock. “You’re uncut, aren’t you?” he asked, and Eames gave a startled little laugh. 

“Why yes, yes I am,” he replied, and Arthur pictured him pulling his foreskin back as he started to slowly stroke himself.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Arthur said, half to himself. Eames chuckled again.

“Arthur, if you don’t mind I’d like to ask you something,” Eames said, and there was a new breathlessness evident in his voice. Without waiting for a response, he continued. “You were drunk last night, were you not?”

“Yeah.” 

“I assumed you were. Did you really have a wank staring at my feet?” Eames sounded amused, a little incredulous. Arthur felt his face flush. He gave himself a squeeze.

“I remember jerking off and falling asleep, naked, and I woke up with dried come on my skin, so… I’m pretty sure I did,” Arthur admitted.

“You don’t often get that drunk, do you?”

“No, definitely not.” Arthur shook his head, closing his eyes as he fell into a slow rhythm.

“Are you terribly ashamed?”

“Of what, of drunk sexting you? Or the feet thing? I’m not… ashamed of the feet thing. Not everybody gets it, but I’m not ashamed of it.” Arthur opened his eyes. “What I am embarrassed about is sexting you while drunk, not actually knowing if you’d welcome it at all.”

“Would you have texted me that whilst you were sober?” Eames pursued.

“Is interrogation your idea of dirty talk? Yeah, I guess, but only if you’d ever indicated you’d welcome it.”

“I’m curious. And you don’t think I’d ever seemed interested?”

Arthur considered. “Not necessarily, no. I don’t assume one drunken makeout means I can just text you whatever. Not when I’m sober, at least.”

“I’m not sure if I’m disappointed you didn’t catch on, disappointed that I failed to adequately hint my interest to you, or impressed with myself for hiding it when appropriate.”

“I’m going to guess you’re impressed with yourself.”

“Mmm, let’s go with that.” There was a smile in Eames’ low voice, and Arthur pictured him with his eyes half lidded, lush lips parted.

“Eames. Do you want to get off, or what?”

“I could stand to get off, I suppose.” Eames made another little rumble like a purr, and Arthur imagined him stretching out in bed, looking smug. “I don’t mind admitting, Arthur, I’ve thought about sucking your cock before but now I’ve seen it….”

“You don’t want to anymore?” Arthur laughed, grinning. He pictured Eames again, lashes lowered, this time with those lips around his cock, and shuddered.

“Far from it, I won’t be able to stop thinking about it now,” Eames sighed, pretending to be put out. Arthur caught how breathless he was. 

“I’ll make up the inconvenience to you,” Arthur said.

“Oh, will you graciously allow me to suck your cock?”

“I might. I’m not promising anything.” Arthur smothered a laugh.

“Oh, ‘might,’ is it?”

“Play your cards right.”

“Arthur. I thought you were wanting to get off.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to pretty soon, with all this talk about you blowing me.”

“Well, go on then.” Eames’ voice was low, intimate. “I want to hear you, I want to hear what your breathing does when you come.”

Arthur inhaled, worked his hand faster over his cock. “I can’t guarantee it’ll be remarkable,” he said.

“It will be, because it’s you,” Eames replied. 

Arthur just blinked at that. Again he thought of Eames’ mouth on his cock, of Eames looking up at him through his lashes, gaze hot and amused in that way that was uniquely Eames. He imagined fucking Eames’ mouth, and let his eyes fall closed. He was semi-aware of breathing harder into the phone, crackling into the speaker; Eames hummed, low, almost sending Arthur over the edge only to add “Are you picturing me, holding your hips down while I suck you and make you come for me?”

Arthur gasped, and came with a shudder. “Fuck,” he whispered, opening his eyes to watch himself come over his fingers. He was surprised by how thick his voice sounded to his own ears.

“Did that do it, then?” Eames queried, voice husky.

“Yeah.” Arthur chuckled, closing his eyes again for a moment.

“God, I’d like to taste your come,” Eames remarked, and Arthur choked on a breath. 

“Eames,” he said, “if you want me to reciprocate with the dirty talk, you’ll have to wait a few minutes.”

“We’ll add it to the tab of things you’ll be making up to me,” Eames said, “Until then I think I have it in hand. If you must know, I seem to have found myself thinking of you fucking me.”

Arthur exhaled, long and slow. “Yeah?”

“Yes. That’s something else I think about. From time to time.” 

“It’s… crossed my mind a time or two.”

The next time he spoke, Eames’ voice sounded slightly further away; Arthur realized he had him on speaker. “You might be interested to know,” he said, “that in order to help things along, I’m fingering myself.”

“Smart move,” Arthur murmured, sitting up to get a tissue to clean himself up with.

“Just imagine,” Eames said, inhaling, “me, naked, spread out in shockingly wanton fashion, two fingers deep in my arsehole, my other hand wanking away as though I’m a teenager, occasionally… pausing to play with my foreskin.”

“Got it.” Arthur laid back down again.

“Oh, and don’t forget about my bare feet.”

Arthur laughed. “Thanks for the reminder. Fuck, Eames, I wish I was there.”

“Mm, tell me.”

“I’d make you take your hands off and out of yourself--”

“How cruel.”

“--so I could tie them to the bed.”

Eames paused. “Go on.”

“I’d play with your foreskin then. I’d tease you like that and then I’d fuck you with my fingers until you begged me for something more.”

“What would constitute more, Arthur?” Eames pursued, breathy.

“Well--”

“Don’t say you’d tickle my bare feet,” Eames teased. “I’d kick you in the face.”

“I might get off on you kicking me in the face.”

Eames laughed. 

Arthur took a deep breath. “Anyway, where was I.”

“You were trying to get me off by describing what you’d do to me if you were here, specifically, what ‘more’ would mean, if I asked for it.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I’d -- rub my cock all over you.”

“Oh yes?” Eames said, low, tone deceptively light.

“On your thighs. On your stomach. On your chest. On your feet,” Arthur continued, feeling a hot flush over his skin. He closed his eyes.

“Would I have to beg you to fuck me?”

Arthur laughed. “Can’t say I wouldn’t like hearing that. But you wouldn’t have to, per se.”

“I will anyway, I enjoy theatrics and you’ll no doubt have frustrated me a great deal by then to the point where I wouldn’t mind begging.” Eames spoke in a rush, low and breathless.

“C’mon, Eames,” Arthur said, dropping his voice, husky now. “Stop running your mouth, and come thinking about my cock in your ass.”

Eames made a choked sound; Arthur heard him inhale and then exhale, loud and shaky, gasping. Arthur’s own cock gave a sympathetic throb. He waited for Eames to speak again.

“My goodness,” Eames said, the breathiness in his voice belying his mild words. “I must say, Arthur, with phone sex that electric, just imagine what we could get up to in person.”

“Phone sex. Jesus.” Arthur laughed. “So… Harris job, then?”

“Absolutely, if not before then.”

“You need it that bad, huh?” Arthur couldn’t help letting his grin show in his voice.

“Don’t be smug,” Eames chided, and yawned. “You’re the one who sexted me. I’ll get a pedicure before I see you, then, won’t I.”

“Thoughtful of you.”

“With the right motivation, I can be accommodating.”

“I’m starting to see that.”

\------

"Hello," Arthur said, walking into the warm, slightly steamy bathroom, having guessed Eames was in there from the faint splashing sounds when he'd entered the suite, as well as the fact that Eames wasn't anywhere else.

"Arthur," Eames acknowledged, voice muffled by the wet washcloth over his face. He was laid out in the full tub, head and shoulders cushioned by a thick folded towel. He was very still, and Arthur knew he must be exhausted.

He'd set down his bag and toed off his shoes in the entry hall; now, he rolled up his sleeves, with a practiced ease. He knelt on the bathmat, and Eames removed the washcloth to smile tiredly at him, tilting his face up for a familiar, gentle, welcome kiss.

"Guess you had a tougher day than I did," Arthur remarked quietly, carding his fingers through Eames' wet hair. There was a bruise on Eames' cheekbone; he gave it a feather-light touch of his lips. 

Eames closed his eyes, the smile still there, faint, as he laid back again, settling onto the towel once more with a light groan. "I've had worse."

Arthur sat back on his heels. "Relax. Let me take care of you."

Eames placed the washcloth over his eyes again. "I won't stop you, love, I promise."

Arthur soaped up his hands and gave Eames' forearms a massage, followed by a thorough massage of his palms, then a spreading of his fingers; he got him to sit up and dug into the very tight, very bulky muscles of his shoulders. Eames stifled his quiet groans.

Lastly, Arthur moved to the end of the tub, slicked up his hands anew, and started rubbing Eames' feet. Eames gave a little sigh, adding "Don't tickle me," absently, out of habit as he settled down again, almost drifting off as Arthur flexed and massaged and dug into the soles of his feet. It was unnecessary to warn Arthur at this point against tickling him; Arthur knew exactly how to touch Eames here so as not to tickle him or hurt him. Eames knew it, but he liked saying it anyway.

Done, Arthur sat back. "I hate to have to tell you, but the water's gonna get cold and I don't want you to fall asleep in the bath," he murmured, tracing a fingertip down Eames' arm. "C'mon, I'll dry you off and we'll order room service."

Eames waited a moment. "All right," he sighed. Arthur pulled the plug, and helped him to his feet. He dried Eames off, absently dropping little kisses here and there as he did. Eames kept his head down, but his skin was rosy from the hot water, and his downward lashes and the smile playing about his lush mouth compelled Arthur to pause in drying him off to kiss him properly. Arthur knew, though, that he was exhausted, and he broke off to call for room service.

Eames in his boxers settled on the bed, idly watching television as Arthur changed into his pajamas, looked through his notes and waited to answer the door. The food arrived, and they ate. 

Eames was unable, despite his tiredness, to not share his thoughts on their current job, and they were escalating to a full-blown argument when Eames paused for a jaw-cracking yawn.

"We’ll shelve this until tomorrow," Arthur said. He put the dishes out in the hallway, turned off the TV and the lights, and got into bed behind Eames, who had out of habit curled up on his side, waiting for Arthur to curl up behind him.

Arthur wedged an ankle between Eames', as he was accustomed to doing, and Eames reached back to cup his hip, lightly squeezing. "Sleep, love. You've run yourself ragged taking care of me today." 

It wasn't strictly true, but Arthur appreciated the thought. He put an arm over Eames, who seemed to be already falling asleep, and kissed his neck.

"Good night, Eames."

"Good night, Arthur," Eames whispered, a fond smile in his voice. "You're still wrong."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/pseuds/anatsuno), Liz, Julia, and Bára for all your help!


End file.
